In one of the many holed-out hovels of Barrier Gate, smoke filling the air and loud noises washing over the passerby and drifters, a man died. It was a quiet thing, no one even noticed at first. An older man, in his fifties, had walked in carrying a rather large suitcase. He sat it down in the farthest corner from the door and looked at the man sitting there. It was a quarter-circle booth, with a small table in the middle, a relaxing place for some friends to gather and sit on a cushioned chair with a defined focal point. The older man sat down nonchalantly to the right of the man, who seemed to be in his twenties. He was scruffy, as if he hadn't shaved -- or slept -- in a few days. He began to look over at the newcomer, but his head didn't have time to complete the turn. The older man grabbed his right bicep with his left hand and forced the open palm of his right hand against the stomach of the man.
A gasp of breath escaped his mouth, and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. A small trickle of blood began to drip from his stomach as the older man removed his palm. He wore a bracelet on his right forearm, with a poison-tipped needle that would protrude at the flick of his wrist.
He didn't bother to hold the man up, who fell forward onto the table: dead.
As mentioned earlier, no one noticed at first. It wasn't uncommon for people to pass out in this place, but some had caught a glimpse of the brief exchange. The older man sat there like the world was his, as if he hadn't just committed murder with no provocation, no remorse. The bar was his. People began to whisper, only a few at first: "Oh my God, is he dead?" Someone went to the bartender. The older man noticed it all, but paid it no mind. He had an appointment, and the time was drawing nearer. A flash of recognition from across the room, and someone scraped back a chair and ran out of the room.
The bartender, a lean man, walked up and looked at the body.
"What's wrong with him?" he asked, looking dubious.
"I killed him." The older man said it with a firm and unyielding voice, as if it was of no consequence and it was in the right.
"What? Why?" Tremor of fear, flash of outrage.
"Because I can. Because if you know what's best for you, you'll walk back to serving drinks, and bring me over a Liberty Ale. On the house."
He started as if to say "Like hell I will," then took a closer look at the older man's eyes. They were the eyes of a barely contained wolf, of a man with few scruples and fewer restraints. He gulped and took a step back. "Who are you?" the bartender whispered.
As his battle worn gunship was approaching The Barrier Gate station, purple suited man formed a faint smile on his face, nothing similar to one he displays to his enemies. Pleasant memories went through his head like an unexpected moment of an easy death on a sunny and laid back spring afternoon. This is the place from where he started from. He use to live there, he use to dwell here, sharing tales of laughs with his thugs, his friends, reflecting on days now tangible only as a long ended golden age of kings. The Clown almost felt as abnormal as this was a rare moment when he reminded himself of being just another sentimental human.
- Apologize for being late - says the Joker to the Phantom after the drinks had made its way to their table. The man with the briefcase, sitting on the opposite side, seemed to be enjoying his silence. - Traffic nowadays is just... I shouldn't have picked this spot. Brings back memories... - Then he continues - You know... I use to sit here, just like you but over that table over there - points out on the table on Iscariot's right side - watching the purple colors of this system, like it was made that way just for me. Burned a whole bunch of cash right next to this pod just for the thrill of it.
He did not stop talking.
- The world was all mine, Iscariot. A new beginning! The life was simple - the Man of Many Jokes was trying to explain not caring if the Phantom was even listening very carefully. Yet somehow he had a feeling he was being understood. - These days you got whole bunch of politicians running this place. Makes a man wanna go out and buy a suit and a tie and form a party. And politics are just not my style, if you know what I mean. Too boring and scheming... It's not that one can't fight against politics--it simply takes away one's enthusiasm out of equation. Then one day you wake up and realize that you don't wanna blow up things any longer. No point because... - the Joker stops for a moment like he is trying to form a more appropriate sentence. - If the people have gone to become even more stupid than usual, Iscariot--then there's no one out there to receive and understand your message. Fun ceases to be fun.
Now tell me about that large briefcase. You gotta present for me?
Iscariot gave an all-too rare smile. It was a simply a slight upturn of the corners of his lips. He listened to the Joker, this man who he had approached on his own. Hell, he knew what the Eidolon thought of this man. He would likely get some small disapproval for this, but his gut instinct was kicking in. Combine that with the twist Enlightenment had placed on the once-noble Navy soldier, and it became very, very dangerous.
"I couldn't agree more, Joker. I understand that your life has been interesting recently. I also understand what it's like to not be properly supplied. I'm not in a position to help you overly much; I'm acting on my own. However, I do have some things I can give you to... 'help'."
Iscariot reaches down and hefts the suitcase up onto the table. It bumps against the cadaver, causing the dead man to fall over. He pays it no mind. He opens the suitcase by entering a code. There are three things inside of it. One is quite obvious: a portable rocket launcher. It gleams as if new off the assembly line of Detroit Munitions. Next to it is an automatic rifle, one of the more recent models from Ageira. It, too, looks in pristine condition. Finally, there is a credit chip. It has fifty million credits on it.
"This is not a show of friendship from the Phantoms; it's a one-time gift, with a promise that as long as you keep sowing the seeds of discord, there will always be those who support you."
- Looks like Christmas came earlier this year to me - he replies while laughing. - These presents... I like it! Automatic riffle is less-me, nevertheless it's really impressive. I shall put it on a wall in my office aboard Asylum. But a rocket-launcher!? Whoa! It's all new and shinny. Can't wait to test it and on a docked liner full of vacationers heading to Hawaii.
Then he lowered his tone of joy like a grateful kid who felt like his parents gave him too much for a present.
- Despite experiencing some financial difficulties, I'm afraid I can't accept this money Iscariot. It's a matter of principles. But that won't stop me doing what I'm doing already - with a reassuring voice he continued. - Tides will change some day or we'll drown, my friend. Whatever happens, I won't forget this... kind? Yes, this is a kind gesture from a murdering sociopath like you. Isn't life funny like I am sometimes? Just yesterday the two of us... we were shooting at each other, "officer". And today and tomorrow--we'll work together side by side.
They laughed and drank round after round, until shades of purple turned into green.
"Call me what you will, but I'm no sociopath. Regardless, have fun with your new toys..." He scoops up the credit chip. Pitchfork would be glad for that, at least. Those guns were hard to get, though.
"I have a lot of business to attend to, and I'm sure you have things to be doing as well. Goodbye, Joker. Until next time."
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